Watch Me, page 9
“Yes!” he says, slapping the dashboard with his hand. “Hell yes!” Almost immediately, we pick up speed. He turns to look at me. “All right. Okay. Where’d they take your sister? The asylum, right? But, like, how do we get there?”
These words blow open a hole in my chest.
The pain is so unexpected that I make an involuntary sound, lifting a hand to my sternum only to discover I’m still intact.
How do we get there
How do we get there
I am unwell, my heart hammering as I study him. The words left his lips without guile, as if he meant what he said. More anomalies. I can’t make sense of him.
No one in the pit helps each other—certainly not without the promise of compensation. People have too many problems of their own. Those who reek of neediness are pariahs; there’s no faster path to isolation than to ask for help.
I asked for help once, when I was ten years old.
My mother had just killed herself, her remains still spattered against the wall. Clara had scooped up a bit of Mama’s brain and couldn’t stop staring at it. I was worried she was going to put it in her mouth so I pried it out of her grubby fingers and Clara cried for two days straight. I had no idea how to care for a three-year-old. I could hardly care for myself. I ran from cottage to cottage, hysterical and half out of my mind. The only neighbor who answered her door slapped me in the face so hard I fell silent. She looked me up and down a long time.
Just you two girls alone in there now? she asked.
Yes, ma’am. Clara hasn’t eaten in days—
You’re going to need this, she said, and handed me a shotgun.
“Hey,” James says sharply, glancing away from the road.
I look up.
“You okay?”
James blurs as I stare beyond him, my mind fracturing. Even if we could get to Clara, how could I help her? Where would I take her? How would I care for her? They took Clara from me to torture her. They’re going to bring her to the point of death only to destroy her over and over and over—
“Hey,” he barks.
I look up again. I hadn’t realized I’d looked down.
“Your name is Rosabelle, right? Or is it Rosa? I heard someone call you Rosa just now.”
No one but my family ever calls me Rosa, I answer in my head. Sebastian lost the right years ago.
“Look, I realize you’re in a bad place right now, but if we’re going to save your sister we really—”
“There is no saving her,” I say quietly.
“What? What do you mean?”
“This is a small island with highly developed surveillance technology. If I try to save her, I’ll be easily caught and executed for treason. When I’m executed Clara will die.”
James slackens, his feet slowing on the pedals for the first time. “Oh,” he says, deflated. “Damn.”
I nod, taking the moment to dissolve inside myself. Feel nothing, taste nothing, be nothing.
Die.
I glance out the open door.
James’s efforts have earned us a slight lead, but a swarm of aircraft is gathering in the sky above us, soldiers’ footfalls thundering toward us. James tries to shoot back but the effort is short-lived; the magazine is empty. He shakes his head before rifling through the glove compartment, chucking something angrily out the door as he mutters, “Seriously, Jeff? A fucking diet milkshake but no ammo?” and I choose not to ask him what he means.
Sebastian didn’t share the details of the program with me; as with my first encounter with James, Klaus felt it necessary that I participate in the mission as organically as possible. All I know for certain is that I’m not supposed to kill James; in fact, I haven’t been instructed to kill anyone yet. My job is to remain close enough to James to get the two of us off the island and into the heart of enemy territory in order to initiate a broader offensive. I’ll receive communications about the next steps of the operation only after I’ve touched down in The New Republic, where an undercover agent will find me.
This is phase one of six.
Each phase must be completed within a prescribed time period. Right now, for example, I have as long as it takes to get out of here before someone kills me.
If I fail at any phases of the operation, I’ll be executed.
I glance at the cracked screen in the dashboard, the flashing demand for biometric verification. Soon, we’ll be surrounded. Soon, I’ll be on my own to manage all aspects of this situation, which means, for Clara’s sake, I need to do my job and get us off this island as soon as possible. The trike appears to be working, at least a little, which—
“All right.” James sighs, giving up the ammo search. “Get out.”
I go suddenly still. “Excuse me?”
“I said get out.” He nods toward the door. Circles a finger above his head, gesturing to the helicopters above us. “I have shit to do.”
“I don’t understand.” I hesitate. “I thought you were trying to save me.”
Now he looks annoyed. “You really thought I was trying to save the serial killer who murdered me? Honestly, I’m offended. Get out before I push you out. You can fucking save yourself.”
A feathery sensation moves inside me at that, something akin to joy. “You wanted to save Clara,” I say softly. “You only wanted to save Clara. You don’t care about me at all.”
“Look, are you okay? Like, I get that you’ve had a bad day, so it’s cool if you haven’t noticed the ten pounds of blood all over my body, but I’m kind of having a bad day, too, and I’ve got two new bullet wounds to deal with—”
“Three,” I say, glancing at the encroaching masses. “You were shot at least three times.”
“Okay smart-ass, I’ve asked you twice to get the hell out of this vehicle, and now you’re starting to piss me off—”
“Can you swim?” I ask.
At this, he hesitates. “Yeah, but—”
“The only way off this island is off the island. Do you understand what that means?”
He glances away from me, toward the sea. “You’re suggesting I jump off the cliff? Thanks for the brilliant insight. I already thought of that. Get out.”
“Drive off the cliff,” I clarify. “And I’m not getting out. I’m coming with you.”
ROSABELLE
CHAPTER 15
James goes rigid. “Coming with me? Coming with me where?”
“To The New Republic.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a fucking serial killer, that’s why.”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re telling me you haven’t serially killed people? For a living?”
“I can help you,” I say, ignoring this. “I can get the chopper to work. I can get you home. But you have to take me with you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He throws up his hands. “Are you joking? You’re clearly some kind of psycho mercenary servant of the fascists. Why would I take you with me? So you could kill everyone I care about? Imagine being invited to a potluck and bringing the plague.” He points at me. “You’re the plague.”
My jaw tenses. “If that’s true, why did you try to save my sister?”
“She’s a kid,” he scoffs. “That’s different.”
“And your arrogance is breathtaking,” I counter. “You came to this island as part of some covert op and slaughtered dozens of people in the process, but you think you’re better than me because you’ve decided your motives are worthy. Well, I think my motives are worthy, too.”
He casts me a sidelong look. “Aren’t you getting married next week?”
“Not anymore.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s true.”
A helicopter opens fire overhead, an earsplitting boom preceding the launch of three warning missiles fired in perfect formation. The explosions rock the aircraft so hard we nearly knock heads. The din is deafening; the heat stifling. I look around to discover we’re trapped in a triangulated inferno.
“Jesus,” says James, wincing. He presses his hands to his ears, shouting over the small firestorm. “They really don’t know how to kill me, do they?”
“They’re not trying to kill you,” I say, coughing. “You’re worth more alive than dead.”
“You know,” he says, squinting at me through the smoke, “beautiful girls are always saying things like that to me. It’s starting to go to my head.”
The careless compliment catches me off guard, nicking an exposed vein. A fragile shoot of pleasure pushes up through the fallow fields of my vanity—chased immediately by shame. It’s embarrassing to discover I can still care about such things.
“All right, okay, fine.” He sighs, glancing at the flames roaring just outside the open door. “Let’s get out of here. But the minute you land on my soil you’ll be locked up and vetted by the authorities. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to turn you in.”
“Okay,” I say. “I accept—”
“I’m not done,” he says. “If you run, I will kill you.”
“Fine.”
“If you try to kill me again, I will definitely kill you.”
I blink slowly. “Fine.”
“And if I find out that any of this”—he twirls a finger to indicate the general disaster of things—“is part of some sick plan to get close to my family, I will take you apart. Do you understand?” His eyes flash with barely concealed fury. “You hurt my family,” he says, leaning in, “and you will meet a very different version of me, Rosabelle. I will take you apart. And then I’ll feed you, one piece at a time, to the vultures.”
At this small speech, a part of me dissolves.
His words generate within me the opposite of fear; instead, I find my thoughts dipping into the absurd. I wonder, briefly, what it must be like to be loved by someone like him. To have someone always in your corner, someone willing to fight for you. James was ready to risk his life for a little girl he’s never met; I can only guess at what he’d do for his own family. I wonder if they have any idea how lucky they are. How many of us would kill for that kind of fierce, unshakable loyalty.
“I understand,” I say quietly.
He holds out a hand, ostensibly to shake on it, but for reasons I don’t fully understand, the idea of touching James scares me. I steel myself before finally slipping my hand into his, neutralizing my expression as I grow uncomfortably, acutely aware of him. His skin is warm and calloused and streaked with dried blood, large and rough against mine.
I look up. We lock eyes.
He smiles a strange, amused sort of smile, and suddenly the cabin is overcrowded, the distance between us too small. He lets go of me slowly, his fingers sliding against my palm, and I experience a shocking spasm in my chest—the same terrifying spark I did the day I killed him.
“Truce,” he says.
“Truce,” I agree.
My skin seems to be buzzing. I ignore this unwelcome development by flattening my hand against the cracked monitor without further delay. The aircraft hums to life, and the screen unlocks, greeting me.
“Good morning, Unfinished Profile. Please update your information. Otherwise, enter destination.”
I experience a modicum of relief. Only yesterday did Sebastian grant me small-aircraft authorization; Klaus must’ve anticipated this moment. Quickly, I zoom out on the map. Ark Island is located off the northwest coast of what used to be North America; there are a cluster of other islands nearby, many of which remain under the control of The New Republic. I make a selection at random, choosing a set of coordinates on an enemy island closest to us.
“Your destination does not exist,” says the vehicle. “Override or enter new destination.”
“Override,” I say.
“Battery is dangerously low,” says the vehicle. “Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or enter new destination.”
“Shit,” says James.
“Override.”
“Rear-left wheel underinflated. Tire pressure dangerously low. Override or call for assistance.”
“Override,” I say again.
“Okay,” says James, “this thing is more messed up than I thought—”
Another explosion rocks the chopper without warning, the impact nearly blowing out my eardrums. I’m thrown back in my seat, grimacing through the pain. I blink my eyes open, peering through the remains of the shattered windshield, and I can just make out the familiar lines of Sebastian’s figure, fast approaching.
Panic clears my head.
“Override,” I say again, tapping the screen. “Override.”
“Safety belts nonfunctional,” says the vehicle. “Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“Override.”
“I thought you were supposed to be helping me,” says James. “You’re making things worse.”
“Be quiet.”
“Airbags nonfunctional. Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“Override.”
“Maybe we should steal a different one?” says James. “A better one?”
“There’s no time—”
“Camera sensors nonfunctional. Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
I throw the chopper in manual, climb over James, seize control of the steering wheel, and floor the accelerator. The vehicle pitches forward violently, throwing me back against James, who unleashes a string of expletives as I land hard against his injured legs.
There’s no time to apologize.
I can hardly see through my good eye, much less through the broken windshield as we bolt through flames ten feet high. I keep my foot planted on the accelerator even as the low-battery signal screeches dire warnings. We head directly toward the cliff, careening wildly on two unbalanced wheels as circling helicopters machine-gun rounds of ammunition at us, taking out the remaining wheels one by one.
Suddenly, we’re sliding.
The trike spins wildly out of control, clipping trees and bushes, branches and brambles scraping painfully along the outer body. I hit the brakes, hard, and we stop spinning only to skid backward off the cliff, launching badly into the air. I hear James shout something profane and then—
And then we’re free-falling, spiraling toward the sea.
ROSABELLE
CHAPTER 16
I don’t allow myself to panic.
I shift gears, manually overriding preset controls in order to activate the rotors. When the blades finally catch, whipping the air at a satisfying clip, I push the throttle forward to full capacity, straightening the dying aircraft just inches before it kisses water. We bump and skid along the tide, water lashing the frame with the force of a knife, but before long the curve of a distant coastline comes into view.
Still, my relief is short-lived.
The helicopters aren’t far behind, three of them appearing in the distance, firing more warning shots that whiz dangerously past our heads, occasionally dinging the metal body. The only thing keeping us from certain death is the fact that they want James alive; otherwise they’d take us out with ease. If I allow them to get close enough, a sniper will put a bullet through my throat before whisking James back to base—where they’ll no doubt recalibrate under Klaus’s guidance. Right now I’m running on adrenaline and the power of a small pilot light: the promise Klaus made me in the cradle.
Complete this mission to satisfaction, Rosabelle, and we will set you and your sister free.
I’m monitoring battery levels, trying to squeeze as much life out of this dented carcass as possible, but I can feel the motor giving out. We’re almost out of time.
“Keep your foot on the accelerator,” I tell James, shouting to be heard above the clamor. “And hold down the throttle.” I climb over him again, returning to the passenger seat before overriding the user interface, typing prompts furiously into the command line.
“What are you doing?” James shouts back, taking over as instructed. “We’ve got maybe a few minutes left before this thing is deadweight. We need to jump.”
“I know,” I call out. “I’m trying to buy us more time.”
I’m still desperately running commands, hoping the aircraft’s computer has sufficient power to execute complex functions. Only when the chopper gives an unsettling jolt do I breathe a quick sigh of relief. Then, quickly, I unlatch the glove compartment and find what I’m looking for: a compact tool kit.
“Hey—wait—tell me what’s going on—”
I stand up on the seat and get to work, dismantling parts of the fuselage in order to access the battery storage. A couple of excruciating minutes later the blades pick up speed and the chopper ascends several feet in the sky. Relieved and exhausted, I sink back into my seat, ignoring the tremble in my right arm as I snap the tool kit shut. I allow myself a second to close my eyes and breathe, relishing the relative quiet. Now that we’re not clipping the water every other second, the deafening noise has settled.
“Okay, what the hell did you do?” James demands. “The choppers fell back and the flight deck shut down. No one is trying to kill us and none of the screens are working.”
Reluctantly, I open my eyes. “I ran a simulation and rerouted the power source.”
“Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”
I feel an urge to laugh at that, except that I haven’t laughed in so long the compulsion surprises me. Bothers me.
Instead I say, “There are different kinds of choppers— civilian grade and military grade. They look different, but people don’t realize that most of these aircraft have similar programming—and use the same computer chips. The civilian models just have massive security restrictions.” I tilt my head at him. “So I tricked the computer into thinking it was a military chopper.”
“What does that mean?”
